


According to One's Courage

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 14:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12390438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Life shrinks or expands according to one's courage.--Anaïs NinWhen a case goes wrong, Phryne and Jack's reunion is not what either of them expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuiGeneris221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiGeneris221B/gifts).



> A repost of my angel write for Suigeneris221B from the 2016 Phryne Ficathon
> 
> Original notes: So, these were some lovely prompts, several of which are stewing at the back of my mind as possibilities to write at some future point. But for now we have I'm So Afraid of You by Sam Lanin and Orchestra, the lyrics of what are below
> 
> I'm so afraid of you  
> Because I know that you know how I love you  
> If you should break my poor heart in two  
> What could I do? I'm at the mercy of you  
> My fears are never [true? through?]  
> I worry so 'cause you know how I love you  
> One day I'm happy, next day I'm blue  
> I'm so afraid of you

Jack stood on the deck of the ship, watching Europe’s coastline go by. It felt very different to his last journey. _He_ felt different. He was not a young man off to do his duty with visions of glory in his sights, nor was he the exhausted shell he had been on the way home. He barely remembered the latter, to be honest. Taking out the telegraph that had come only hours after his own had been sent, he felt a small smile tug at his lips.

> LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU (STOP) HAVE CASE ALREADY (STOP) WILL BE RESOLVED BEFORE YOU ARRIVE BUT THINKING OF YOU (STOP) X HPF

He hadn’t told her the name of the ship he’d booked passage on or the date of his arrival, only that he would leave Melbourne “soon” and to keep an eye on the horizon. He half-hoped he would surprise her with an arrival that had only possible with some very clever travel arrangements and calling in a few favours, but knowing her she’d suss out his plans in half a day and be waiting for him on the docks. 

It had felt odd, to leave Australia behind. To realise that his carefully guarded heart was as transparent as glass to her, that nothing was hidden to her perceptive gaze. This trip should terrify him—so much at stake with so little to go on, nothing more than a hastily issued invitation and the taste of her lipstick and a pin on her scarf that promised she _knew_ the truth he had not kept hidden—and he supposed on some level he was. But for all of his fears, he was certain of Phryne Fisher. That was enough. 

He took a deep, bracing breath of the sea air and turned to head back to his cabin. Only a few days until he saw her again.

———

It was dark, damp. Her hands were bound, and through the throbbing in her temple Phryne wondered why. Where was she? 

A sound—she turned her head towards it, felt woozy, bile rising in her throat. She lost consciousness once more. She wasn’t certain how long it had been, but the moments of awareness were little more than sensations—the burn of rope against her wrists when she struggled; a heavy, smoky smell; the metallic acid taste lingering in her mouth; a damp chill seeping into her bones. Rough hands on her arm, a pinch, her head spinning.

There were hands on her forehead, her cheeks, soft touches and a murmuring voice. Warm. Safe.

“Jack?” she croaked.

“He’s been looking everywhere for you, miss. He’ll be here soon,” soothed a voice she couldn’t place. “This bit is going to hurt like hell, but stay with me.”

A yank, searing pain, and darkness swallowed her again.

Cool sheets, the smell of antiseptic, a hand that didn’t fit quite right holding hers. Her eyelids were so heavy. She squeezed the hand instead, breathed deeply; all she could detect was the scent of the hospital.

Awake, asleep, fading in and out until she was aware of the morning birdsong and a bustling at the foot of the bed. She opened her eyes at long last, focusing on the nurse holding her medical chart.

“What… what happened?” Phryne managed. 

“Miss Fisher,” said the sister briskly, “it’s good to see you back amongst the living. I’m afraid you had a rather nasty encounter with London’s criminal element. No lasting damage, but with the drugs you’ve been out of it for the better part of a day, and it will be another 48 to 72 hours before it has cleared your system entirely.”

Phryne’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember. There’d been a blackmailer, a meeting… had it gone wrong? She remembered… something. She turned her head to the side in search of Jack, wondering if it had been a dream. It was so foggy.

“You’ve been asking for Jack,” said the nurse. “The man’s hardly left your bedside, but I did insist he fetch himself some breakfast while I examined you. As an attempt at modesty, you understand.”

The relief rolled through her, an unapologetic wave soothing across her battered body, easing some of the ache. He _was_ there. 

“I can’t imagine any of it would be a surprise to him,” Phryne laughed softly. “But perhaps not the best impression.”

The nurse nodded absently, selecting a thermometer and placing it in Phryne’s mouth. Satisfied with what she saw, she recorded the temperature and Phryne’s other vital stats. 

There was a cough at the door, and the nurse looked up.

“Ah, your gentleman has returned. _And_ he’s brought you a pot of tea. I’d keep this one,” she said with a wink.

Phryne turned towards the door slowly. A tall blonde man stood in the doorway, bearing a tray. He smiled sweetly, and Phryne felt panic claw frantically at her chest.

Definitely not Jack.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Her confusion lasted for a few seconds, just long enough for her chest to ache, her breath to catch, for every nerve in her to shout “FLEE!”, and then she recovered.

“Jack!” she said, with enough brightness she hoped her internal feelings were masked. “Did you bring me cake?”

John “Jack” Arlington-White, one of London’s up-and-coming pastry chefs, shrugged.

“I did, dear Phryne, but I’m afraid I’ve already eaten it. The early bird catches the worm, after all.”

“How inconsiderate of me,” Phryne replied with playful tilt of her head, determined to appear her usual self. “Perhaps if you hadn’t gotten yourself blackmailed I might have been in a better position to rise early?”

“You haven’t risen early by choice in all the time I’ve known you,” he grinned, and Phryne felt a crack in her facade—she often had, in Melbourne, at least when on a case. Which was the last thing she needed to think about at the moment. 

“Still, there’s tea at least,” she said, moving the sheets on the bed as she sat up properly. She was still woozy, still off, but she had long ago learnt how to power through an unpleasant hangover. And that was all this was—a particularly painful hangover. Raising the teapot, Phryne winced—well, a hangover and a good beating.

The nurse finished her paperwork and promised to be back in half an hour, and to call if Phryne needed anything before then. Jack had taken a seat beside the bed, still smiling. When she had left the room his smile dropped, just slightly.

“I thought your adamance was odd, but I presumed it was the drugs. Not the Jack you were expecting, I take it?” he said.

“Of course you were,” Phryne lied. “Who else could it be?”

Jack—her Jack—wasn’t even in England, would not be for some time. And there was something unforgivable in thinking of him as her Jack, the implications she tried to leave behind on an airfield outside of Melbourne nipping at her heels. She loved him, and she didn’t have the foggiest idea how to protect herself from that knowledge.

This Jack just raised an eyebrow and silently offered to pour the milk into her tea. He filled her in on the chain of events that were still a blur to her—when she had uncovered the identity of Jack’s blackmailer she had gone to confront him, not realising that he was better connected than she had been told. When Phryne had failed to meet Jack later that evening, he had gone to the police— “Sod my reputation, Phryne,” he said. “I wasn’t about to let you die for me.”—and they had finally found the meeting location in her notes. Arrests had been made, Phryne recovered, charges laid. 

“All in all, very neatly resolved,” Phryne said. “I’ll send you my bill.”

“Phryne…”

“I’m fine,” she said, “just getting tired. Thank you for the tea, I’ll let you know when I’ve been released?”

Her friend nodded doubtfully, unwilling or unable to push her; Phryne watched as he stood and took his leave, promising to stop by the following day if he hadn’t heard from her. Phryne murmured an agreement and he left, leaving Phryne alone with her thoughts. Her memories were coming back, still patchy but clearer—the press of a knife against her throat; the certainty of death, her abductor’s breath hot and sickly in her face as he whispered promises; the small room she was held in morphing to the back of a wartime ambulance, of field hospitals, of a tiny Parisian flat—and she was in no state to fend them off. She began to cry.

She really missed Jack.

———

Jack looked up at the townhouse, then back to the paper Doctor MacMillan had entrusted to him. This was the right address, but the dour dark brick and drawn curtains made it seem a far cry from the energy and life he associated with Wardlow. Still, he was here. Night had already come—winter in London meant darkness fell far earlier than it ever did in Melbourne—but he suspected he was early enough he would not be disturbing Phryne from other activities. And if he did… well, he would blame himself for showing up with no more than the single telegram sent with no date or time of arrival.

Tucking the well-worn note into his pocket, Jack adjusted his hat and approached the door. He knocked briskly, and after a moment heard sound from the other side of the door; it swung open, revealing a butler.

“Good evening,” said the man.

“Good evening. Is Miss Fisher in?” Jack asked.

“Miss is not at home to visitors.”

And it was a perfectly acceptable response, but there was something in the butler’s delivery that set Jack’s policeman’s intuition on edge. 

“I believe she’s expecting me, but my arrival date was up in the air. Perhaps you could…?” 

The butler shook his head, and Jack was rather reminded of a bulldog. 

“Miss Fisher is unavailable,” he repeated firmly.

“I’ll leave my details then,” Jack said, trying not to grit his teeth as he extracted a card. He knew this had been a possibility, his pride had merely convinced him it was not. There would be no going through the man, clearly, and perhaps whatever he was protecting was something Jack rather not know about. 

Scrawling the hotel he was staying in on the back, he wondered whether to leave a message as well. ‘I came after you’ perhaps, though it might be an unwelcome level of sentiment if she was entertaining another gentleman. So he left it blank, saw the butler’s eyes flick over the card details, and turned to leave. He was halfway to the pavement when the butler called out.

“Inspector Robinson!”

Jack turned to see the butler motioning him back towards the house. He hurried up the path once more. The butler worried the card in his hands, then took a breath.

“This J.,” he asked, “does it stand for Jack?”

“It does.”

Another breath from Phryne’s servant, and then, “Please, come in.”

Jack entered the townhouse, and his impression of it did not improve. When the heavy wooden door was shut behind them, the butler leant in close to Jack and dropped his voice.

“Miss might very well let me go for this,” he said. “But if you’re who I think you are… Please, come upstairs.”

Which was such a break with propriety that Jack almost declined. He followed the man up the staircase and down a corridor, stopping in front of a closed door.

“Miss Fisher…” the butler seemed to think his words over carefully. “She’s not come out of the bedroom much, not since they released her from hospital last week.”

Jack paused, hand hovering just short of knocking on the door, and tried to settle his sudden concern. Time spent in hospital was bad enough, knowing what sort of things she had shaken off without so much as a doctor’s visit, but to have holed up in a single room and closed herself off from visitors… It was exceedingly out of character, and he needed more information. 

“Hospital?” he asked after a moment, but the butler was already gone.

There was nothing for it—Jack knocked on the door.


	3. Chapter 3

His knock was greeted with a mumbled invitation to enter, and Jack cracked the door open. The only light came from a small stained-glass lamp on the bedside table, casting a green-tinted light. Phryne was curled in the bed, buried beneath a mass of blankets and pillows; when she looked up, Jack noticed the circles beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said dully, pulling at the edge of one of the blankets. 

Words—to tease her into their usual good humour with a well-intended “What did you get into this time, Miss Fisher?”, to comfort her, to declare the feelings that had propelled him this far—abandoned him. He took a step forward, then hesitated, removed his hat, shifted it between his hands. He had, by nature of their friendship, seen her tired, vulnerable, and scared. Never had he seen her like this.

“Phryne?”

Her name seemed to stir something in her, because she sat up a little straighter and gave him an entirely unconvincing smile.

“Hello, Jack. How was your journey?”

“Good,” he answered automatically, trying gather enough information to draw conclusions. “Your butler said you’ve just returned from the hospital?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “A few bruises, and a dislocated shoulder is never fun, but I’ve had worse.”

He moved forward again, as if to see for himself. “Your driving?” 

“Of course not, Jack. I misjudged someone during an investigation and was taken hostage as punishment—”

“Oh Phryne,” he breathed.

“Served me right,” she said. “And he ended up arrested, so all’s well that ends well.”

He looked at her levelly, knowing that if she saw the horror and fear rolling through him she would never forgive him. She met his gaze, but it was a charade. Closing the final distance between them, he reached out to touch her hand resting on the covers; she flinched away.

“Did…?” Jack wasn’t even certain what he was asking, and shook his head. “Would you like me to leave?”

“Do as you like,” she shrugged.

Silence fell, and eventually Jack took a seat in the armchair nestled in the corner of the bedroom. He could see her, but it gave her space.

“Have you been sleeping?” he asked.

“Quite a bit,” she said.

“Well?”

“Uhh, the shoulder gives me some trouble,” she lied; he didn’t call her out on it.

“And you’ve stayed in here?” Jack asked, glancing around the room. There was a pile of books on a table, Phryne’s clothes strewn around. A door on the wall adjacent to the one he’d entered was slightly ajar, but not enough to tell what was on the other side. 

“I’ve been recovering,” she said primly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’ve never followed orders a day in your life, Phryne,” he countered, voice mild. “Tell me the truth.”

“I’m fine, Jack.”

“No, you’re not.”

The corner of blanket she had picked at previously regained her attention.

“Is it nightmares?” he asked gently. “Memories? Are you… hurt?”

She’d worried a thread loose from the blanket, and was wrapping it around her finger. 

“I called for you,” she finally said, her tone devoid of all emotion.

And whatever he expected to hear didn’t break his heart near as much as what she said.

———

“I called for you,” she said; she had railed against it, had hated how she reached for a man who wasn’t there after every nightmare, had cried so many tears. She had no energy to fight it any longer, had resigned herself to this weakness.

The pity in his eyes could not be masked, even when he gave her a small smile.

“I think, perhaps, even you can be forgiven for requesting police assistance from time to time,” he said, attempting levity.

Phryne wanted to agree, playfully concede that perhaps police officers did serve an occasional purpose, pretend that was all she had meant. She didn’t have the capacity. 

“After I was saved,” she said. “I called for you after I was saved.”

She saw the implication hit him, watched him swallow. He fidgeted with the hat in his hands.

“Phryne—” 

“I’m supposed to be stronger than this.” _I’m supposed to rely only on myself._

“No… no,” he said, eyes and voice both soft and firm. “Phryne, you are the strongest person I know. But you’ve never been an island. That _is_ one of your strengths.”

“On my terms, Jack,” she said quietly. “That’s the distinction. On my terms.”

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked; the background panic flared again, telling her to keep him close, send him away, make him _less_. Her damn hands were shaking, and she forced herself to smile.

“Perhaps remove yourself from the bedroom?” she suggested. “If you go downstairs, Jones will make some tea. I’ll join you once I’ve bathed.”

He nodded, standing, and headed towards the door. He stopped with a hand on the knob.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, not turning around.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,” she replied quietly, but felt a tendril of mischief wind through her. “Though if you were inclined to join me in the bath…”

He shook his head and headed out the door and Phryne watched him go, still trying to process his unexpected arrival. Then climbing from the bed and drawing a robe around her, she padded to the claw-footed tub in the corner and began to run a bath. 

Selecting some bath oils—lavender and honey—she breathed in the steam, then stood. She shed her robe and pyjamas, laying them on the back of a chair, and regarded herself in the full-length mirror. The bruises has turned a mottled yellow-green and were no longer tender to the touch. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dark. No wonder Jack had looked concerned—she hadn’t realised it had gone so far.

She turned off the tap and slipped into the bath, allowing the hot water to wash over her. 

She remembered very little of her time in the hospital—she had discharged herself as soon as feasibly possible, well before the doctor’s recommendation, and still feeling the after-effects of the drugging. Her home—her clothes, her food, her bed, her people—had seemed a much better alternative than the comfortable-but-sterile room she’d woken up in. But London was no longer her true home, and falling into a cycle of disturbed sleep had been oddly easy, the drug’s effects becoming ones of exhaustion, and there had been nobody to challenge her on the matter; the police had taken her statement, and Jack (Other Jack, her mutinous brain supplied) had stopped by to see that she was recovering, but ultimately she had been alone—as she wanted, but very much did not need. 

And with exhaustion had come nightmares, and with nightmares had come the reminder that she had wanted him despite all reason or self-reliance, and with the reminder had come the fear. Fear that she would become weak, that she would lose herself (had already lost herself), that this reliance and faith could not be easily untangled even if… even if. That he had not come to her rescue—oh, logically she knew that he had been days away, that had she still been gone when he arrived he would have moved heaven and earth to find her. And that was terrifying in its own way, but that was a known. It was safe. This… this was not. Not for her. 

Jack Robinson was, perhaps, the biggest challenge she had ever faced, and there were times it felt like there were no good outcomes. Slipping beneath the water to wet her hair, Phryne wished she knew what to do about it.


	4. Chapter 4

The butler, Jones, had produce not only a pot of tea but a platter of cheese scones as well, and Jack tucked into them with some vigour.

“Miss Fisher should be down soon,” he smiled at the man, and despite the professional demeanour Jack could tell he was relieved. Phryne did inspired that in people.

“I will prepare a more substantial meal then,” said Jones, taking his leave.

Alone in the parlour, Jack contemplated the unexpected development. Even Phryne Fisher was mortal, strange though it seemed, and not immune to trauma. But she seemed more rattled by wanting him than by the abduction, which was not, perhaps, the most auspicious greeting. He mulled it over for some time, recognising the impulses if not the specifics, and knowing there was very little he could do.

Eventually there was a sound by the door, and Jack looked up to see Phryne sweeping into the room. She’d donned trousers and a blouse and applied powder and lipstick, and she was smiling. He stood immediately.

“Miss Fisher!”

“Oh, do sit down, Jack,” she said briskly.

He looked at her carefully, searching for any sign of the woman in the bedroom not half an hour before. There was a tightness around her eyes, a tilt to her lips that was not quite the right angle, but her movements were fluid and familiar as she poured them each a whiskey. 

“You look…” he trailed off; he’d never really remarked on her appearance, not without responding to her own comments, and it seemed wrong to begin with this. Luckily she arched an eyebrow and smiled enigmatically.

“Better?” she prompted, handing him the tumbler.

A smile tugged a corner of his mouth. “Refreshed.”

“Not the reunion you had imagined, I’m sure.”

He shrugged, took a sip. “I tried not to imagine it. Safer that way, with you. I figured it was even odds whether or not there’d be a murder investigation involved.”

“Just blackmail,” she said, the explanation slipped so easily between them.

“The Metropolitan police less welcoming than their Victorian counterparts?”

“A little, yes. And the detective I ended up speaking with is excessively fond of poker. _Poker_ , Jack.”

They both chuckled at that, and Jack raised his glass in salute before taking another drink. Silence stretched between them, comfortable but tense. Finally Jack stood from his seat, heading towards the fireplace to lay another log on the fire. He stayed facing the flames for a moment, watching the new wood catch alight and feeling the heat on his face.

“During the war,” he said, “I was… somewhere I shouldn’t be. And I wasn’t getting out under my own steam.”

“Jack—”

“The difference, Phryne, is that I had no reason to believe anybody would come looking.”

“Did they?”

He nodded, his eyes still on the flames. He had never told this to anyone, knew what the potential cost giving voice to this could be. 

“Yes. There were orders from on high to leave it,” he said. “Luckily for me, there was trouble with the lines and it didn’t come through until my unit had… retrieved me.”

“Good,” she said bluntly, picking up the subtext.

“When I was in hospital recovering… what happened was far from the worst thing I saw in Europe. But I think I would have gone mad, laid up in bed with those thoughts and that exhaustion and the what-almost-weres, if I didn’t have that camaraderie to lean on.”

He heard her set her tumbler aside, draw a shaky breath. He grabbed the poker, prodded at the fire to buy more time. She exhaled, twice, but said nothing. There was a cough, and then a voice.

“Dinner is served, Miss Fisher.”

Standing up, Jack followed Phryne and her butler through to the dining room.

———

The food was delicious and served so efficiently that there is no hint it was a spontaneous meal, and Phryne watched Jack carefully as he tucked in. That strained pity in his eyes was gone—masked though not obliterated, she suspected, but she would accept it. 

His confession in the parlour… there were times she wondered how he could see through her so well, wondered how such a thing could be borne without becoming inextricably entwined and altered. And yet it had been oddly reassuring, to hear her own conclusions given voice in his oblique sort of way.

When the meal was concluded, Jones re-entered the room, informing Phryne that the guestroom had been prepared. Jack coughed, wiping his mouth with a napkin and saying that he had a room at a hotel near the Strand.

“Merely a precaution,” Phryne said, “in the event this evening runs late—I suspect it is not the sort of place where waltzing in at midnight is appreciated.”

His lips twitched at her unintentional choice of words, and Phryne felt herself smile in response. Their waltz that afternoon at The Grand had been… his quiet confidence, in her, and in himself; his challenge; his hand caressing hers as he drew her into step; all of it had assured her that she wanted whatever they were heading towards. He had done it then, in the face of her father—been a silent pillar she could choose to lean against if needed, never presuming—and he was doing it now.

“Come upstairs?” she asked, the words rushing from her mouth almost awkwardly. 

.”I—”

“For a drink, not—the whiskey is better up there.” 

“Ahh.”

“Private parlour, not—not that I wouldn’t—I simply—oh, sod it!” she blurted out, relatively certain she’d never been this awkward in her life, and Jack actually laughed.

“I would love to,” he smiled. 

Phryne stood, leading the way upstairs to the private parlour attached to the bedroom. She poured two whiskeys, taking one and sitting in an armchair with her feet tucked beneath her. Jack took the other seat, and they chatted for some time—there was little news from home, Jack’s departure coming so quickly after her own, but the small details were most welcome. They spoke about their respective journeys, people Phryne had met in London, Jack’s tentative itinerary, anything but the… _situation_ that hung over proceedings. It seemed Jack had said his piece and was leaving the next move to her. It was nearly midnight when Phryne unsuccessfully stifled a yawn, and Jack placed his drink aside.

“I should—”

“Stay?” she requested, the word out of her mouth before she could think. Which was exactly what had landed her in this position in the first place, a fact they were both well aware of; her fists clenched, fingernails digging into her palm, and she took a deep breath. “I think… I would very much _appreciate_ your company.”

His eyes flicked over her, settling on her mouth, and his lips twisted in a battle between desire and honour.

“The armchair, perhaps?” she suggested, her voice nearly trill. “Just until I fall asleep? There are books and...” 

Trailing off, Phryne looked at him again; this offer, this admission of vulnerability… it left her entirely at his mercy.

His nod was slow and deliberate, and the trace of a smile warm, and she knew that her trust had not been misplaced.

“Until you fall asleep,” he agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

_It was dark, damp. Head aching, muscles straining, the rasp of her own panted breath echoing in her ears. She flinched from a distant explosion, realised she was in a cupboard, or a coffin, buried in the dirt beside Janey, tried to scream and shout, clawing at the wood_ —

Phryne woke with a start, body jerking and suppressing a scream. The bedside lamp had not been turned off, casting its light on familiar furnishings, and she realised she was in her bedroom. London. England. She breathed deeply, the sweat on her skin cooling. A dream. Relief, the frantic pulse already slowing. Just a dream.

She glanced at the bedside clock, realised that she’d been asleep for hours. Longer than she’d slept since the—

_Jack_. 

At the thought of him she heard a soft breathing, and realised he was still in the armchair behind her. 

After he had agreed to stay until she was asleep, she had retreated to the bedroom to prepare for bed. When she was done, she’d gestured him into the bedroom—a minuscule part of her aware of how different this was to what she had expected—and he’d picked up a book and taken a seat, giving a small smile her direction and promising to leave when he was done. She didn’t remember much after that, just burying beneath her blankets as exhaustion overtook her. And he was still there. 

Pleasure that he was there warred with irritation that he’d stayed when he said he’d leave, and she was still uncertain which would win out when his breathing changed. He’d woken up, she realised, but was remaining silent.

She stretched but did not roll over.

“That can’t be comfortable,” she remarked, voice husky from sleep. “Come lie down or go to the guest room, but I won’t be held responsible for you throwing out your back.”

He huffed a laugh, then stood. 

“I fell asleep,” he admitted. 

Phryne rolled over, eyeing him—he’d removed his jacket and tie, and rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms. His hair was slightly askew, and his eyes were bleary with sleep. She scooted back in the bed to make room for him, heart thumping almost painfully at the sweetness of the image. 

She wanted to run her fingers through that hair, feather kisses along his jaw and throat, strip him slowly and feel the press of his body against hers. And she would, soon. But not yet. 

Reaching out with one hand, she laced her fingers through his and tugged him into bed.

———

Jack was vaguely aware of a weight on his chest, warm breath tickling the hairs there. He drew his arm around her body, smiling slightly.

“Miss Fisher.”

“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” she laughed quietly, one hand trailing over his bicep.

“Mmm, I’m not sure I have,” he replied, opening one eye.

She was _looking_ at him, all soft hair and playful eyes and love; he swallowed hard.

“If this was a dream, Jack, I suspect we’d both be wearing less clothing.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed indolently. “But this is rather nice by itself.”

“It is,” she agreed, leaning up to brush a soft kiss against his lips. It was warm and familiar and almost painfully easy; she seemed to catch his thought, because she nipped at his bottom lip playfully before pulling away.

“How did you sleep?”

“Better,” she replied, and he could see how much exhaustion had been lifted from her. “Thank you. For staying last night.”

“You didn’t need me, in the end,” he smiled.

“No, but knowing you were there if I did made it easier.”

“Good,” he said, his voice catching slightly. He drew her close once more. “I’m glad.”

They lay together quietly for some time; her fingers were toying with the buttons on his waistcoat.

“It won’t be immediate,” she confessed finally. “It will likely take some time before I am completely myself again.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. I wouldn’t be admitting this if you didn’t. But I will be, eventually...” 

“I have complete faith in you,” he said; she was Phryne Fisher, and she would succeed. 

She kissed his cheek, then leapt from the bed.

“Come on, Jack!” she said brightly, already heading towards her wardrobe. “You need to see London.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Life Expands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12404922) by [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj)




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